


This is

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Bondage, Bottom Dean, Cock Cages, D/s, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Non-Negotiated Kink, Trauma, Watersports, fic of a fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 02:23:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11244378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: His throat is raw and his head is empty and it’s easy to smile against the warm, clean skin of Sam’s chest as Dean drifts to sleep.This is still new, and strange, but Dean can get used to it.This is Dean. Happy.





	This is

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellhoundsprey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/gifts).



> Inspired by '50' by Hellhoundsprey, this might not make sense if you haven't read that first, and it's really fucking awesome so you should definitely read that (mind the tags), Au of 4x17 'It's a Terrible Life' with Dean Smith and Sam Wesson.

Elbows braced on the marble countertop of his kitchen island, Dean scrolls through pages disinterestedly on his laptop. He winds up switching back and forth between two tabs. Both are Williams-Sonoma pages, the same six hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. One set in an almost black shade of maroon, the other a dark navy blue. Neither are really to his taste, but they won’t show stains very well. The maroon sheets would be the obvious choice. They make his stomach curdle a little.

Dean will probably throw the sheets out after they’ve served their purpose. A few weeks at most. Maybe a month to be on the safe side.

In the laundry nook behind him, folding doors open, the wash machine hums quietly. Dean had woken up with mottled rust-red to browning spots speckled across the sheets, around the knee to waist area.

Shifting onto one foot and scratching the back of a calf, the softest cotton of an old pair of sleep pants drags feather-light across his skin and it burns. Dean settles, clicks out of the tab for the maroon sheets, and puts one set of navy blue into his online shopping cart.

He could go out and physically buy a set today, wash them, put them on his bed tonight instead of staining the white or powder-blue sheets that he has. Dean has already stooped to ordering food online like an invalid. He has no interest in leaving his apartment during the small window he’s called off work ‘sick’.

At least, not again. It was difficult enough to drag himself out with Speight to get the key from Sam.

Worth it. But he doesn’t have the energy to look another human in the face and he has no interest in hiding how much pain he’s still in.

It should feel better, shouldn’t it. Stitched up, on pain medicine, resting around the apartment all day.

The itching is the worst. No, maybe it’s the stitches pulling tight and pinching his skin. Or the myriad of mottled bruises and welts striping his backside that weren’t bad enough to need stitches but still darken his skin discolored and they are so, so tender that there is absolutely not a single inch of skin he can sit on or lay on that doesn’t hurt.

Dean orders the nice sheets. In navy blue. Pays for overnight shipping. Leaves his laptop on the counter as the wash machine beeps that it’s finished, and he turns to pull the white sheets out and put them in the dryer. Even with pre-treating and bleach, there are faint brown stains that linger.

Dean will probably get rid of these sheets too.

—-

Sam’s bed is a large, luxurious expanse of rumpled slate gray sheets and Dean curls his toes in the folds of them lazily. Clench, release. Clench, release. He’d stretch his legs out but they’re tied together, bent, calves bound to the backs of thighs and held wide by leads connected to the corners of the bed.

Dean’s not sure why Sam likes to pull him open and put him on display like that when he isn’t even down there. It usually makes Dean feel too exposed, under Sam’s scrutiny.

He doesn’t mind so much right now. In this moment. Head hanging off the edge of the bed and Sam’s cock down his throat.

It’s getting easier.

Messy spit trails from the corners of his lips down his cheeks, dripping into his ear and it tickles, wet in his hair but it’s already slicked with sweat and spiked from Sam’s massive hands running through it. Pulling. Holding Dean.

Warms fingers dig tighter against his jaw, angling Dean’s head a little further back, so Sam can push in deeper. It’s amazing, that all of that could fit. Dean can’t breathe well but it’s okay, he starts to feel light headed and loose limbed and it’s kind of nice.

It’s like floating away, becoming something else, something he didn’t think he could be, or would want to be. But it’s easy. When Sam makes the decision for him.

“You should see yourself, Dean. God."

It’s hard to hear over the rush of blood in his ears and the slick squelch of Sam fucking his mouth.

“I can see my cock in your throat.”

Those smooth long fingers spread down from his jaw, circle lightly over his throat and press. Dean retches, better at keeping everything in his stomach even if he can’t suppress the spasm. Sam’s fingers push against the tight invasive pressure, from inside and from outside and it’s overwhelming.

“Should take a picture of you…”

Dean would say no, God, he’d never want Sam to take pictures of him like that. Wouldn’t want to see them, couldn’t fathom the possibility of anyone else seeing them. Sam would never show anyone else; he can be possessive at best. Dean knows that things happen sometimes, petty games, but he’d put his foot down on the matter.

Probably wouldn’t make a difference. When Sam wants something, he finds a way to get it.

Dean’s too far away to really care. Aching in his joints, legs bent and pulled, arms tied under his back and he can feel his pulse angry against the bindings over his wrist. There are too many distractions to really focus on one thing. Anything.

Except Sam.

Sam. Sam. Sam.

Everywhere, Sam. Hands and heat and insistent pressure. Everything. Sam.

He’s all tingly and limp afterwards. Well, his cock has been limp the whole time. Locked away. But his body feels like it’s been completely spent and drained to empty.

This is the best part.

Sam propping him up and guiding him to a shower, toweling him down with something ridiculously fluffy, tucking him into bed and curling up behind him. Sam’s voice muffled against his skin murmuring things Dean doesn’t really hear but it’s okay. Sam’s skin and his breath so gentle over the curve of a shoulder, arms wrapped around Dean.

They kiss, and it’s all worth it. Dean’s never had this, with anyone. He didn’t have it with Lisa, this kind of hunger, the need that Sam pulls out of him. To be touched and wanted. To feel so cherished, as Sam rolls Dean to face him, chest to chest, hands stroking down Dean’s back.

His throat is raw and his head is empty and it’s easy to smile against the warm, clean skin of Sam’s chest as Dean drifts to sleep.

This is still new, and strange, but Dean can get used to it.

This is Dean. Happy.

—-

When Dean checks his mailbox in the apartment lobby the next day, at one p.m., the box from Williams-Sonoma is waiting. He’s only wearing socks, couldn’t stand the pain to bend over and lace his shoes up, nice bathrobe pulled over his loungewear and he hopes to god that none of his neighbors catch him out like that. He braved a shower that morning, meticulous in cleaning his hair, his face, his front side, but he couldn’t do more than squeeze a soapy cloth over his shoulders and stand under the spray, brace against the warm water sluicing down ruined skin.

So Dean darts to the mailboxes quickly, avoids the eyes of a neighbor that he never sees at this time of day because he’s always at work, and when he gets back to his apartment he locks the door behind him.

The apartment is warm with the oven on. One of the pre-made meals that came with the food package he ordered is heating. Something with pasta in it, and lots of sauce. Dean didn’t even look at the calories or ingredients on the box.

How long can he keep that up.

How long can he keep any of this up, really. New sheets to hide the blood stains. Holed up in his apartment, off work, to hide from Sam. He’s hiding from himself too. Dean knows that, he’s not stupid. He doesn’t want to be who was before he met Sam and he doesn’t want to be who he was when he was with Sam. Dean doesn’t know who he wants to be, so he eats pasta that’s too rich and makes his stomach growl, puts dark sheets on his bed that clash with the light wood of his dresser set, and studiously avoids looking at the ugly marks striping his body in the mirror.

He should get something for that. Coconut oil? Or tea-tree oil? Sounds vaguely familiar, from the self-care, health regimen blogs he reads every now and then.

Dean ends up on his laptop again. Like hell he’s going to go to a cosmetic counter in a nice store and ask about it. He’s not asking for help. He got himself into this mess and he’ll figure it out.

The new sheets are soft and gentle on his skin. Dean can’t sleep on his back. He’s not used to sleeping on his stomach. He folds his arms under the pillow and can’t fall asleep, so he turns to his side. Every muscle in his body is sore, not just the places that were beaten or split open, literally every muscle from his neck to his ankles is aching from the tension and stress.

His bed is too cold when he’s by himself, anymore. It’s early fall and comfortably warm so Dean hasn’t brought out the winter bedding yet. He digs through the storage in the back of the hallway closet and finds a medium weight comforter. It’s too much for his back but the heat is relaxing.

Sleep is necessary. Dean has to go back to work tomorrow.

—-

Dean whimpers and arches his hips into the contact, warm spread of Sam’s hand on his hip pushing him down into soft sheets. He can’t hear the embarrassing noises that he makes, does his best to bite them back. They’re muffled behind the gag stretching his jaw achingly wide. Still, it’s a matter of principle.

He doesn’t want Sam to know how much it affects him. Not being able to see him is one thing. Not being able to hear him is another. Having both of those taken, with earplugs in and blindfold buckled behind his head, ball gag firmly in place, legs and arms stretched taut and bound - it’s insufferable. Inhumane.

Every time Sam steps away, he’s unmoored. Let loose into nothingness, fractals of panic unfurling and spreading.

Soothingly, a hand slides up his hip and across his belly. Dean’s quivering, skin flushed too hot he can feel sweat bead and drip down his body, dampening the sheets.

Slowly, the bed dips with Sam’s weight, heat settling at Dean’s side but not quite touching. Twisting towards it, he can get maybe an inch or two off the bed with his hips. There’s nothing to see. Nothing to hear. Only the rubber taste of the gag in his mouth and the soft rumple of sheets beneath his body. He needs to feel Sam, to know that he’s there, hasn’t left Dean again for an interminable amount of time in nothingness.

Pressure is released around his cock and Dean could cry when the cage comes off, throb of his pulse rushing there, Sam’s hand warm and needlessly rough on him. He fills immediately. Flushes with pavlovian arousal engorging his dick, flushes warm behind his ribs because he must of done something good for Sam to give him this.

—-

There’s a little brown box from Amazon waiting for Dean when he gets home. He’s drained from work and his whole body throbs with a constant, dull ache. All he wants is to pass out but he needs a shower after sweating through the day.

He doesn’t know if he should even use any of the creams or lotions that he’d gotten for scar reduction when he still has stitches in. Technically, his skin isn’t scarred yet, it’s a scabbed and ugly nuisance. Dean had decided to order a few different things, no idea if any of it will work, and one little tube of cream that he’d tossed in his Amazon cart was for minimizing bruises. He could try that, on his lower back and thighs, skirt around the dark lines of neat sutures.

Warm and steamy in the bathroom from his shower, Dean twists to look at himself in the mirror. Deep bruises such a dark plum they almost look black in the center ringed with livid reds that fade to yellow and brown patches.

He’s going to be sick.

Dean leaves that reflection of himself in the mirror, the open bottle of bruise-cream on the lip of the sink. He pads into his bedroom and pulls on a long sleeved cotton shirt and pants, tugging them roughly over scabs that pull away after softening in the shower.

He’ll try again later.

Restless, agitated, Dean lays face down on his new navy blue sheets and thinks vaguely if he has the willpower to suffocate himself in his own pillow.

It itches between his legs. Waxed hair growing back in is distractingly, constantly itchy. Shoving a hand down his sleep pants, Dean scratches blunt manicured nails through the stubbly hair. Shaving might help, but that would have to be a constant. Better to suffer through it until it all grows back. Honestly, his armpits are probably even more miserable than the tender skin between his legs and around his dick.

He hasn’t gotten hard since. Since then.

The warm pressure of his own hand doesn’t do anything for his own dick. Curiously, he pushes a little lower, sweeps his fingers back and up, body clenching involuntarily and he feels his stomach turn over.

Dean pulls his hand out of his pants, pushes up off his bed. He storms past the open bathroom door and the bruise-cream still on the sink, goes to his kitchen and pulls the fridge open. There’s cheese in the dairy drawer, fuck’s sake.

This has gotten ridiculous.

Dean cleans his fridge, then organizes his cupboards, scrubs the sink and counters.

—-

Dean squirms, pushing his hips up, trying to scoot a little higher. The tub is cold and hard, back aching from lying in it. Arms bent up and wrists tied behind his head, hands fisted against the back of his neck, with ankles tied together and calves belted to thighs, he can’t really manage to go anywhere or even find a comfortable position.

Comfort. Yeah, he should just give up on that. Dean knows better.

At least his arms aren’t tied at the small of his back. That’s murder on his shoulders, and Dean must be getting old but he can feel them twinge for a day after Sam roughs him up, when he has to go to work and type for eight hours.

The door to the bathroom swings open. Dean can see out of the corner of his eye. Sam is there, again, with a new jug of water. All Dean can do is squirm, mumble incoherently but his tongue is mashed up against the ring of the gag that keeps his mouth open.

“You should know better, pet.”

Sam tells him.

The funnel is back, nestled into the ring and Sam pours. Dean whines and molds himself against the hard curves of the tub and there’s nowhere to go. He only sputters a little, swallows down what Sam gives him and he swears that the amount is increasing in steady increments.

“This is going to happen.”

Sam pulls the funnel out and sets it on the vanity. The partially empty jug gets set next to it. Sam leans against the sink and stares at Dean, calculating, thick arms folded over his chest.

Sam is still wearing clothes, a starched white button down and black slacks.

The only thing Dean’s got on, other than the cuffs and belt and gag, is his cock cage.

“But I don’t mind waiting.”

Smiling, a small tilted twist to his mouth, Sam turns and leaves again.

Dean’s not sure how long he’s been in here. Hours, maybe? Feels like it. Feels like it could be days. His stomach is uncomfortably full of water, sloshy in a way that twinges painfully when he shifts. Nowhere to go but he’s not that good at giving up. Is that what Sam is trying to do? Teach him how to give up.

It seems like every time Dean finds that, yes, he is capable of giving up on a thing - Sam’s cock inside his mouth, Sam feeding him, Sam spanking him until he cries, Sam’s stupid fucking contract - each time, there’s something new for Dean to give up on.

Like, this. Dean is pretty sure he gets the objective, what’s supposed to happen here. Bound and left in the tub as Sam gives him more and more water, disappears for stretches at a time. Dean is cold, sore, and clenching so hard it hurts. The hard metal of his little cock cage rests against his waxed-smooth belly, and he can see it, down the flat plane of his body, and he really really doesn’t want to give up.

Somehow, this is harder.

When Sam tries to show him new things, get Dean into some other freaky sex thing, it’s not usually this bad. Not during, at least. Dean has a habit of overanalyzing, in the afters. In the in-betweens. But he’s found this sweet spot, in the during, that he can crack open and sort of just... leave himself. There’s pain to distract him, in the things that Sam does, and he doesn’t have time to think.

This, right here, this is time to think and Dean is mortified already at the prospect of what Sam is trying to do - even if he doesn’t really understand what Sam is trying to do - and he just, can’t, do it.

There’s a lack of distance. Of distraction.

The door swings open. Sam picks up the funnel and the jug of water, kneels beside the tub on a folded towel, and forces more water into Dean’s belly that’s so full it’s cramping. He empties the jug. That’s gotta be, what, a gallon? Two? Maybe. At first it was only a few sips. Dean sputtered and coughed. He learned to press his tongue up and hold it in his mouth while he breathed through his nose. Then Sam clamped a clothes pin down over his nose and all he can really do is hack up a lung before painfully swallowing whatever Sam gives him.

This can’t be healthy, this much water. Isn’t there such a thing as drinking too much water and dying?

Dean feels like he might. Of shame, if nothing else. Because he is starting to feel sharp bolts of pain through his abdomen as Sam puts the funnel and empty jug down. Leans against the vanity and watches. Calculating. Dean’s not sure what the equation is.

What the answer is.

When Dean doesn’t give Sam the satisfaction of what he wants, Sam leaves and comes back too soon, sits on the closed lid of the toilet with his laptop.

God, is he working?

“You’re just making it harder on yourself,” Sam says, fingers tapping at the keys. “Really, you do worse to yourself than I ever do."

Dean’s on the verge of tears. Would that be enough, for Sam? If he just started fucking bawling in this bathtub, tongue pushing against the ring of his gag trying to beg to just be let up. Dean scrunches his toes and squeezes the fists of his hands tighter as every slight movement, every hair-fracture shift makes his bladder scream at him.

Putting the laptop down and sighing, as if this is an inconvenience for him, Sam steps over to the vanity and turns the tap on.

Dean really does cry now.

It’s a relief, a sudden sharp release as he starts pissing on himself, through the metal of the cage and all over his belly as it splashes against the sides of the tub and drips everywhere.The smell is awful. He might just throw up, choke on his own vomit. That might be preferable to enduring this. Because it does not stop. It’s a steady, strong stream that slicks all up his stomach and against the tops of his thighs, against the leather ties holding him, down the smooth porcelain and it slicks its way under his back and his ass and over his feet.

It’s warm. It’s an almost euphoric pleasure to relieve his bladder but Dean can feel his whole body flush with the shame of it and still his piss is hot on his skin.

He can’t stop crying. Chest heaving with big sobs and the bondage holding him digs in tighter, crueler, as Dean squirms.

“See, now was that so hard?” Sam asks.

After Dean’s bladder is empty, covered in his own urine and itching, crying, desperate with the need to clean himself and cover himself, then Sam flicks on the tap for the shower.

Ice cold, the spray stings against his soft belly and folded legs. Sam stands there and watches.

—-

It’s a little easier with the sutures out. The thick raised scabs that caught on his clothes and peeled off against his sheets, leaving stains behind, they’ve lessened to tender scarring. The skin that was split open is fused back together, puckered in places, bruises faded to sickly yellows and greens. It still hurts to sit down.

At least Dean can stomach looking at himself in the mirror long enough to see what’s what. Diligently, he applies the bruise cream, the scar reduction cream, moisturizes. He cleans, he tends to his skin, he goes about his daily routine.

Why should tending to the marks mottled the length of his backside be any different from shaving and moisturizing his face.

There’s a topical anesthetic that Dean puts on the worst of it before going to work.

Most of his body itches. All the healing scabs he does his best not to agitate. The hair growing back everywhere - the armpits and crotch area are the worst. His legs are practically a non-issue. Dean lathers soap around his dick and swipes one line with a razor when he feels something tight clench in his chest, heart rate picking up, and he remembers the first time Sam did this to him but it wasn’t with warm soap and a razor, he’d slapped hot strips of wax everywhere with his massive hands. He did whatever he wanted. Took whatever he wanted. Made Dean into what he wanted.

Dean puts his pajama pants back on. He shaves his armpits instead. When he turns in the mirror to check that he’s done a thorough job, in the corner of his vision he can see fading marks across his lower back, the worst of it disappearing down into his pants, but he knows it’s there.

Sometimes, he’s not sure what he’ll see in the mirror. His appearance startles him.

Dean doesn’t know what he wants anymore. He doesn’t know who he is anymore. His body has been transformed into an unfamiliar landscape, foreign to even himself.

He is a stranger here. Occupying unknown space.

It should be more difficult, to understand this. But Dean knows.

This is what he deserves. He was stupid enough to think better of Sam, too weak to say no. He let this happen.

It’s kind of awful, being alone with his own thoughts.

This is Dean Smith. A stranger.

—-

Things have changed a lot since they got rid of the contract, but they haven’t really changed.

There was no way for Dean to anticipate being put on display like that. Showed off. Sam’s property.

Dean hadn’t thought it would be Sam’s kind of thing, to, to do the BDSM stuff in public. It was strange, seeing him in a different environment. Although Dean had said he wanted to meet Sam’s other friends, that wasn’t what he meant. Sam said they weren’t really his friends though. Dean gets that.

Trying to go back to something you used to be, it never really works.

He’s realized something, though. He can make it easier for himself. Maybe, if he gives Sam what he wants at home, Sam will ease off at work. Dean can’t stand doing this stuff at work. The conference, or convention or whatever it was, it made Dean realize something about himself too. Something uncomfortable.

He’s just as much a freak as the rest of them of are.

So when Sam asks, calm as anything with his shirt cuffs unbuttoned and rolled up, tumbler of whiskey in one hand and Dean at his feet - naked, bound, caged; typical Tuesday night - when Sam asks, “Ass, or mouth?

Dean says, “Ass, please. Sir.”

It’s been a long time since Dean’s done anything to startle Sam, and the pleased soft shock of breath when Sam focuses on him, Dean can hold on to that. He seems gentler, given what he really wants. Gentler at least than how rough he’s been in taking Dean’s mouth. Maybe Dean should say more often, should give Sam what he expects. It’ll be easier.

Sam’s broad hands squeeze his shoulders, slide down the arms pulled behind Dean’s back and stroke up the furrow of his spine. Without goading, Dean pushes off his knees and stands, uncertain where or how Sam wants him. Those warm, steady hands engulf his hips, turn Dean around so that he’s facing away from the couch and then tug him down.

Kneeling astride Sam’s lap, Dean leans back to rest against his chest. Sam’s breathing is even as his ribs expand and sink, hands gliding down the spread of Dean’s thighs and then up past his caged cock to tease over his belly and pluck at his nipples.

Dean barely squirms, tries to hover over the hard line of Sam’s erection. With one arm wrapped around Dean, Sam snakes his other between them and pulls his dick out. Dean pulls his balled fists higher against the small of his back.

Taking his time, Sam rolls his hips and slides his cock up the cleft of Dean’s ass. Drags his teeth over Dean’s shoulder, hair tickling at Dean’s skin. Cruelly, he twists Dean’s nipples tight between thumb and forefinger as he sinks his teeth into the tender crux of Dean’s neck.

“There’s a good pet.”

Dean bites his lip. Sam brings a flat hand down hard on the inside of a thigh, the slap loud in the calm of Sam’s apartment. The sting lingers, blooms as Sam hits him again, and again. Dean feels himself floating away.

When Sam pushes him up, he stumbles, awkward feet unwilling to do what Dean tries to tell them through a hazy fog. Pulled around, left standing while Sam reaches for something, back onto his lap facing him and the flat of his mouth and the hold of his sharp eyes, Dean’s left vacillating somewhere between the present and the absent.

Thick fingers work him open perfunctorily, spreading lube inside him. Sam leaves him half raised on his knees and slaps his slack face.

“Come on, you want it, ride it.”

Dean drops down, Sam holding his waist and guiding him. Dean sinks all the way down and tips forward, rests his head on Sam’s shoulder, starched shirt only unbuttoned but Dean likes the clean smell of Sam’s laundry, buries his face in there.

A hand seizes at his hair, pulling tight, pulling Dean back. Sam goes for his chest, knows it’ll make Dean squirm, mouth hot on his nipples and teeth hard. Dean bucks back, finds himself riding Sam’s dick, stretched wide and it doesn’t even ache anymore. It feels like a hollow that’ll never be full.

Dean’s dick is dripping in its cage, smearing wet on Sam’s shirt, and he can do this. If he makes Sam happy, maybe he’ll get untied before bed. Maybe Sam’ll even let his dick out.

Dean thinks about soft sheets, about how soft Sam is in his sleep.

—-

Dean hadn’t thought he could forget about it. The weight of it is negligible, practically non-existent. With a tie on, he can’t see the slightest bump of it under his button down shirts. Once he starts leaving it on during workouts, through showers, sleeping at night, he almost gets used to it.

Skin warmed, ever present, the ring becomes just another part of him.

Eventually, he even manages to stop being maudlin about Lisa and old, age-mottled daydreams of a family.

It catches him by surprise though, still. Just like Sam, it’ll smack him across the face with its presence every now and then. Out of the shower, drying his hair, the glint of it in the mirror. Cooking at home, bending to get into a low cupboard, it’ll slip out of the neckline of his tee. Make itself known.

Or sometimes - somehow worse and better - with Sam pressing him into the mattress. Face to face. With no blindfold on, when Dean can look at Sam. Held down, engulfed, overwhelmed. Sam, Sam, Sam, grinding against his spread legs and caged cock. Sam, Sam, Sam, fucking in deep long drags that steal Dean’s breath. Sam, Sam, Sam, head bent as he curls down, nudges underneath Dean’s chin, kisses where the ring rests on Dean’s breastbone sliding around with sweat.

Sometimes. Leaned against the cold wall of Mr. Wesson’s private bathroom at work, face pressed to it. Mr. Wesson’s hand on the back of his neck. Chest flat to the wall and it digs into his skin. Leaves a neat, round bruise for him. Tiny little ache anytime Dean sets his fingers to it.

Sometimes. Bent over a piece of furniture. Couch, table, padded bench. Ass up, face down. Stripped bare and made available. It’ll swing from his neck with a chiming noise. It’s audible, over whatever Sir does to his body. The rattle of the ring swinging on its chain.

Kind of sounds like the tap-tap of a bird flying into a window. Startling, erratic. Again and again.

Dean kind of feels like one of those birds. Hitting an unexpected wall. Stunned.

So he starts to wear the ring more frequently on his finger, when he’s not at work. It’s less distracting. Fits exactly as well as Sam intended.

This is Pet. Sam’s.


End file.
